


i'm not the one

by lovages



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 03:56:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1590764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovages/pseuds/lovages
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one sings Dean the birthday song.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'm not the one

The stab of agony in his arm wakes Dean up at around half past three in the morning. After all the trouble he’d gone through to pass out for a while, waking up to the pain annoys him. Achieving dreamless sleep takes a specific rotating cocktail of drink and pills. He cradles the offending arm against his chest and the scar tissue burns and burns through the layers of his shirt.

He’s not new to pain. They’re old friends. Settling into it, Dean grits his teeth and breathes through the suffering. He’s not reaping anything he didn’t sow. He deserves this. It lasts a few more seconds, almost a minute and then douses out, quieting to a dull, throbbing ache he can almost ignore. It leaves him cold and shaky, desperate for someone to share the lumpy motel bed with. His mouth feels desert dry but he’s reluctant to help himself to some water in case moving sets the arm off again.

He shifts around gingerly, trying to get comfortable, and turns to his side, facing the nightstand. His phone sits next to a rusty lamp, charging. He picks it up against his better judgement. He’s awake, he might as well waste a few more minutes before trying to get back to sleep. There’s one text message waiting for him from Cas: _please call me when you have the time._

Gnawed by anticipation and worry, Dean fidgets with the screen and makes the call. Cas answers on the second ring.

“Dean. Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Dean says, voice crusted with sleep. “Your message? You okay?”

Cas’s exhale over the phone is a rush of static; his relief almost tangible. “I just wanted to keep you informed of our progress in tracking Gadreel.”

“Oh?” Dean feels his chest clench with guilt and anger at the name. “Any leads?”

“None at all,” Cas says, gentle and apologetic. “The Men of Letters had an untested tracking spell that Sam and I attempted. It didn’t work.”

“Dead ends never stopped us before,” Dean says, swallowing the knot of disappointment. It rolls against the spittle, threatening to choke, bruising harder than rock, tasting like bile. “We’ll get the son of a bitch one way or another. Thanks, Cas.”

He’s about to hang up when Cas says hurriedly, “Dean, wait.”

“Yeah?”

“Are you having trouble sleeping?” Cas asks. The rumble of his voice is comforting and Dean sinks into it, soaks it up. He shouldn’t allow himself this. He doesn’t deserve concern. But he’s always been weak when it comes to Cas. The exception to every one of his rules.

Dean moves to shift the phone and his arm protests with a spike of pain. He lets the phone rest on the side of his face and sighs. He’s waited long enough to speak that he’s certain Cas has cottoned on to the lie, but Dean sticks to it anyway. “I’m fine.”

“I miss sleep," Cas says, sounding wistful. “At first, it was unsettling, but now I find the days too long. The night hours stretch unbearably. When I was human, I was advised to count sheep to help fall asleep. Have you tried that?”

“Yeah.” Dean smiles despite himself at the unguarded innocence of Cas’s well-intentioned attempt at help. “That’s good advice.”

“Oh.” Cas sounds surprised and pleased and his voice turns lush with it. “Dean, I could sing you a lullaby if you wish. I know from experience that I’m quite effective at making infants sleepy.”

“What,” Dean says, dumbfounded and then he realizes Cas is joking. _Joking_ , for Christ’s sake. “Oh, you got me. Good one.”

“Indeed.”

Dean manages a wheeze of a laugh at how smug Cas sounds. Sleep is coming to him gradually, and Dean only realizes it when he finds his gaze isn’t focused on anything in particular. Something about Cas soothes him and he doesn’t want to poke that and make sense of it. Maybe it’s the sound of Cas’s voice. Maybe it’s an angel thing. Maybe that’s what makes him say, “If you’re so keen on singing, it’s my birthday. So you should, y’know. Wish me.”

“It is?" Cas demands, startled. “Dean, you should be here–”

“No, I really shouldn’t,” Dean says, cutting him off. “I need to be out here. I need to give Sam– whatever. Look, I should get back to sleep.” He should hang up, but he waits, feeling wretched and miserable. Unbidden, the thought goes out like a prayer– he wishes Cas could zap himself here. Just for a few minutes. Cas makes it all a little better somehow.

Cas inhales and it’s a sharp, aborted sound “I wish I could be there too, Dean.”

Dean shudders, choking on a breath as his skin goes tight and hot in shame. There isn’t time for this. Every second he can spare he should be doubling down his efforts to avenge Kevin and do away with Abaddon and Crowley once and for all. He fucked up and there’s no coming back from that. He has to make amends. But he’s also exhausted. Everything he’s ever done feels like a long string of bad decisions made up for with more bad decisions. He wants, more than anything, to stop for a minute. In spite or maybe because of that, he finds himself growing physically tireder still. He could sleep for a lifetime. But all he’s got is four hours too few every other day.

“I’m better off left alone,” Dean says, scraping the words out from the pit of his stomach. His vision goes blurry around the edges. It’s sort of blissful.

“No, Dean,” Cas says, heavy with sorrow and insistence. “Tell me where you are.”

Dean shakes his head before he remembers Cas can’t see him. He’s glad his voice doesn’t shake too much when he says, “No. You have to stay with Sam. Do your own thing.”

Cas sighs, defeated and backs down. “Will you at least call me in the morning?”

“Why?” Dean frowns drowsily.

“Because,” Cas sounds frustrated. “Because i want to speak to you.”

For too long Dean just breathes and listens to Cas breathe in response. He tries to imagine the scowl on Cas’s face, the unhappy wilt of his eyes, the downward tilt of his mouth. He’s got making up to do with Cas, too. Debts everywhere. Finally, he grunts, “We’ll see.”

“Can I call you?” Cas asks and he sounds far too meek and uncertain for Dean’s liking.

“You can always call me, Cas,” Dean says gruffly. “Any time you need anything. Or just any time. Call me.”

Sounding placated, Cas says, “I’ll let you get back to sleep.”

“‘Night,” Dean says gratefully, eyes falling shut.

“Dean,” Cas says hesitantly.

“What,” Dean grumbles.

Softly, the quietude of his voice tender and intimate as a caress, Cas says, “Happy birthday.”


End file.
